‘Johnnie’s at Exeter University and Jane’s just finished school,’ Alice replied. ‘She’s hoping to go to Bristol.’
‘How time flies!’ George marvelled, ‘It seems like only yesterday they were children.’
‘You’ve been away a long time, George,’ his sister said, without resentment.
‘I hope the place hasn’t changed,’ he said hopefully.
Faye smiled and shook her head, pleased that he cared so much. ‘Lower Farm and Frognal Point are exactly as you left them,’ she said. ‘Perhaps a couple more houses here and there and a few new faces but all the things you loved as a child remain unchanged. We made sure of that, didn’t we Alice?’
When they arrived at Lower Farm, Faye made them all tea with cake, sandwiches and biscuits, which they ate in front of the fire in the sitting room. George took one bite of the cake and remembered his wartime homecoming, eighteen years before. There was no way his mother had cooked this cake herself! The children devoured it, savouring the novelty, and began to talk to each other in quiet voices. Susan was immediately enchanted by the house. It was so English in a cosy, chaotic way. She noticed the stack of sheet music on top of the piano and the books scattered carelessly on tables and on the floor against the wall. Seeing Faye in her home enabled Susan to understand her more fully. Even she, who had never really known Trees, could hear the hollow echo his absence caused and, as much as Faye tried to dissemble, Susan could sense that she felt desperately incomplete without him.
However, once classical music resounded through the house and they were warm and their hunger satisfied, their spirits began to lift with the fog.
George asked about his father. Faye’s face flooded with colour and she lowered her eyes. He wanted to know all the details. Faye’s teacup began to tremble slightly as she relived the day of the storm and, when she confessed that she hadn’t been with him when he died, she had to put it down, it was rattling so much in its saucer.
‘Where were you?’ George asked. His tone wasn’t reproachful but Faye was immediately on the defensive.
‘I was in the village, visiting a friend,’ she replied cagily.
George wouldn’t have been suspicious had it not been for the inner flame that burned through her cheeks. Suddenly he was reminded of an image, long forgotten, of his mother riding her bicycle out of the farm in the middle of the night. He had never asked her where she had gone and why now, after all this time, this image chose to surface, he didn’t know.
‘When I returned he was nowhere to be found,’ she continued. ‘I searched everywhere. I just knew that something was wrong. When I found him, he was already dead. He had been knocked down by a falling branch, bashing his head on Mildred’s gravestone.’
‘And the funeral?’ George asked, devastated to have missed it.
‘Just a simple service for friends and family,’ his mother replied. Her face reverted to its natural pallor.
‘Don’t feel bad that you didn’t make it, George,’ said Alice kindly. ‘He would have understood.’
‘I know. I just wish I had said goodbye.’ He sighed and smiled crookedly in resignation.
‘We all do,’ Faye added in a small voice.
‘I’ll visit the grave tomorrow morning.’ He took Susan’s hand in his, grateful for her presence. ‘Hopefully the fog will have lifted and I can show you and the children Frognal Point.’
‘We’d love that,’ she replied, squeezing his hand reassuringly.
‘I want to see some crabs,’ interjected Ava, cheering up now that she had eaten.
‘Even if the weather’s bad we’ll go and have a picnic lunch on the beach. I’ll show you rock pools full of crabs and urchins and make you a treasure trail in the sand.’ The children grinned excitedly, remembering all the stories their father had told them of his childhood.
‘I’ve heard so much about sand-filled sandwiches, I’m really looking forward to trying one,’ said Susan, happy that her children were no longer looking miserable.
‘Oh, yes,’ enthused Faye. ‘They’re part of Frognal Point. You can’t have a picnic on the beach without them.’
After dinner, when the children had gone to bed, George and Susan sat outside on the terrace beneath a navy sky that glittered with stars. It was cold and they huddled together in thick coats, while George smoked as he had done as a young man, when he had struggled to come to terms with life after war. The flagstones were wet and slippery and strewn with dead leaves and small twigs. The low twit-twoo of an owl rang out from a treetop somewhere close, its haunting whistle rising above the wind. George was consumed with nostalgia. The smell of rotting foliage and farm animals reminded him so much of his childhood. Even the sound of that old owl was the same as it had been when he was a boy. Home was unchanged, except for his father’s absence. He looked out into the garden, as far as he could see, until the lights from the house faded and the fields beyond were shrouded in blackness, and wondered whether his father’s spirit was among the trees he had so loved. Maybe he was there on the terrace, watching them with amusement now that he was so blissfully detached from the world. Maybe Mildred was with him. Maybe Mrs Megalith was wrong and there was no afterlife. He held Susan close and they sat in silence watching and listening, Susan to the place that would now be her home and George to the echoes and images of his past.
For George it was strange to be at Lower Farm without Trees. The house felt deserted as if its spirit had gone too, leaving only bricks and mortar. He lay in bed that night listening to the familiar creaking of floorboards, breathing in the smell of woodsmoke from the fire downstairs and remembering. If it wasn’t for Susan and his children he could have been a boy again. But his body felt too big for the bed, like a man playing in a children’s playhouse. He had moved on, made a life elsewhere and come back to find he had grown up and away. It was going to be hard adjusting. When he closed his eyes he saw the faces of his friends killed in the war, for his homecoming had reunited him with his past. The demons hadn’t gone, they had just got lost on the Argentine plain.
The following morning dawned with splendour. Not a cloud marred the perfection of the sky and gulls flew once more, their cries of delight ringing out as they glided on the breeze. Susan looked out of the window and her heart inflated with joy. The garden glittered as if strewn with diamonds as the sun caught thousands of beads of dew on the grass and plants, illuminating them as if by enchantment. It wasn’t long before Charlie and Ava bounded in. Ava squealed with excitement and jumped into bed to wake her father. She giggled as he rolled over and wrapped his arms around her, growling like a big bear. Charlie looked on in amusement, too grown up now to indulge in childish horseplay, although a part of him still longed to. Susan watched them in wonderment, reflecting on the amazing ability children had to adjust to new surroundings.
Faye hated sleeping alone. She had barely spent a night apart from Trees since they had married. Once or twice she had sneaked off to Thadeus, only when she had been desperate, but she had always awoken with her husband beside her. Now she awoke to a feeling of emptiness. She missed his warm presence in bed, the sound of running water in the bathroom as he brushed his teeth and shaved, the knowledge that she wasn’t on her own. For a moment she suffered that cold ache in the pit of her stomach that she had had every morning since he had died, but then the events of the day before came flooding back replacing the ache with optimism. She opened the curtains and dressed quickly so that she could make breakfast for her son.
The noise in the kitchen as she walked down the corridor was heartening. It had been years since she had had people to look after. Since the children had grown up and left she had busied herself sculpting, a lonely hobby that required hours of solitude. Now she had a family to cook for and entertain. It would take time to warm to Susan; she was aloof and vigilant, which Faye felt had a lot to do with the scar she bore on her face, but the children were enchanting. She looked forward to watching them play in all George and Alice’s old haunts like John
nie and Jane had. They would love the farm and all the animals and she would teach them the piano and how to create with clay. Her evenings would no longer be solitary. Even if they moved into one of the farm cottages, which was the plan, she would be surrounded by her family, a dream she had given up long ago.
After breakfast George drove Susan and the children into Frognal Point. Charlie and Ava pressed their noses to the windows, noticing everything from the small, rolling fields to the quaint country cottages. At one point they had to wait behind a throng of Friesians meandering slowly down the lane on their way to the milking parlour. An old man walked behind them wielding a stick, which he brandished in the air like a weary warrior with a sword. He recognized George immediately and tapped his cap in respect. When George rolled down the window to engage in a brief conversation, the old man spoke with such a strong Devon accent, rolling his ‘r’s so tightly, that Susan couldn’t understand a word.
The village was quiet. They passed the shop where Miss Hogmier brooded like an angry vulture awaiting more gossip to peck at and the White Hart pub where George had met up with his friends in the evenings for beer and darts. After the war there had been fewer of them, only a handful of survivors, all as jaded and cynical as he was, their youth gone and their prospects uncertain. He wondered what had happened to them in the years that he had been away. Had they married, had children and found their lives again? He could still envisage them leaning on the bar, staring into their beer hoping to find answers there. They drove past pretty cottages and a couple of large houses hidden up short driveways behind yew hedges and trees. At the other end of the village the church came into view. It was small and squat and very old. George remembered the services he had gone to on Sundays, dressed in his best clothes, the women in smart hats and gloves. It had always been as much of a social occasion as a religious one. He remembered how his mother used to stand for ages outside chatting to Hannah and their friends while he and Rita had played leapfrog over the gravestones, much to Reverend Hammond’s disapproval. He recalled the time Mrs Megalith had made her surprise appearance and decided to tell the children the story. They were riveted by the tale of the Elvestree witch and enthralled by the thought of the magic cats appearing out of nowhere.
‘Will we meet her?’ Charlie asked, leaning forward between the front seats.
‘Of course you will. She’s legendary,’ he replied. Susan smiled secretively; she had much to thank the witch for and looked forward to doing so in person.
‘Does she really ride a broomstick?’ Ava asked.
‘I’m sure she does, but only at night,’ her father replied.
Susan smacked his knee playfully. ‘Oh, darling, you’re wicked!’ she scolded in amusement. ‘What will they say when they meet her?’
George grinned. ‘I’m longing to find out,’ he replied mischievously and Susan shook her head as he launched into more outlandish stories.
George parked the car on the village green and led his wife and children across to the church. It was quiet in the graveyard, not a soul to be seen but presumably many that were beyond the awareness of human beings. Trees’ grave was fresh and covered in flowers. George fell silent as he stood before the mound of earth. When his eyes settled on the grey headstone the reality of his father’s death caused his whole body to tremble. He felt suddenly weak, as if the breath had been knocked out of him. There engraved in the stone was his name. ‘Trees Bolton’. Not Edmund Anthony Bolton, his given name, but the name by which everyone knew him. Susan threaded her fingers through his, but said nothing. Charlie and Ava ran around the graveyard with as little reverence as a pair of excitable dogs.
‘I can’t believe Pa’s in there,’ George said, his forehead creasing into a troubled frown. ‘I can’t believe he’s dead.’
‘I know, my darling,’ Susan replied. ‘The gravestone really brings it all home, doesn’t it?’
‘That’s what we’re all reduced to in the end.’
‘We all finish as dust, but you’ve still got many years of life ahead of you. Don’t let this depress you.’
‘I want to spend some time alone with Pa. Why don’t you take Charlie and Ava to the shop and buy them some sweets?’ he suggested.
She smiled at him sympathetically. ‘Take as long as you like. We’ll walk slowly, it’s a beautiful day and I want to check out my new home town.’
When they reached the shop Charlie and Ava were thrilled to see a large, shaggy dog tied up to the letter box, so Susan left them stroking the animal and wandered into the shop. It was much larger than it seemed from the outside with a stand of magazines at the front opposite a window for the post office and the counter. Miss Hogmier stood in a starched pink apron with her arms crossed, guarding the shelves laden with tall jars of sweets. She scrutinized the stranger shamelessly. When her eyes settled on Susan’s scarred face she recoiled in horror. Susan was aware of her reaction and greeted her coolly. Miss Hogmier tucked her chin into her scraggy neck and grunted. Not one for small talk, Susan wandered the aisles, taking time to look at all the goods, many of which were new to her.
Susan had noticed that she wasn’t alone in the shop. A young woman with a basket walked discreetly up and down with her long, tangled hair doing its best to hide her face. Susan presumed the dog belonged to her. She heard the little bell tinkle as her children came in.
‘Look at all those sweets!’ Ava exclaimed, her mouth falling open in wonder.
‘I’d like a bag of those big red things,’ said Charlie, pointing past Miss Hogmier.
‘Those are strawberry bonbons,’ Miss Hogmier stated. She looked over at Susan and sniffed. The children must belong to her for they all spoke with strange accents. The mother was obviously American, but the children had accents that she couldn’t place. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.
‘Argentina,’ said Charlie importantly. ‘But we’re living here now.’
Miss Hogmier’s eyes opened wide as if she’d been woken from a deep sleep. ‘You must be George Bolton’s children,’ she said slowly, leaning on the counter to take a closer look. Charlie noticed her nasal hair, emerging like the legs of two large spiders and scrunched up his face in distaste. As Susan joined them and asked them to choose their sweets, the other customer came up behind her with her basket full of shopping. ‘George Bolton’s children!’ Miss Hogmier exclaimed again in a loud voice. There was a sudden clatter as the young woman dropped her shopping basket, sending the contents rolling all over the floor.
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Susan apologized, thinking it must have been her fault. The young woman mumbled something inaudible and dropped to her knees to retrieve the fallen items. Charlie and Ava crouched down to help while Susan looked on in bewilderment.
‘At least nothing’s broken,’ said Charlie, picking up a can of beans.
‘Thank you,’ the young woman muttered, smiling nervously, but her eyes were wild and terrified.
‘You go first,’ said Susan kindly. ‘My two haven’t decided what to have.’
The young woman watched anxiously as Miss Hogmier slowly added up all her shopping, placing each item in a brown paper bag. Finally she paid and hurried out, managing a timid ‘thank you’ from behind a curtain of hair.
‘That was Rita Fairweather,’ said Miss Hogmier, staring at Susan accusingly. Now Susan understood the young woman’s nervousness. She pretended the name meant nothing to her and continued to help her children choose sweets.
‘Make up your minds,’ she encouraged, keen to leave the shop. ‘Charlie, why don’t you have a bag of strawberry bonbons and Ava a bag of liquorice?’
‘She’s never been the same since George Bolton left,’ Miss Hogmier continued in a gloomy tone of voice. ‘Has a dog now for company. Lives the other side of Bray Cove. Never has been like other girls of her age, but eccentricity is no crime, is it? Must be hard having a sister with three children and a happy marriage. Not that we ever thought Maddie would settle for a man like Harry Weaver. A glamorous, ambitious girl
like her! But Rita, sweet, innocent Rita. Nearly killed herself when she heard he’d married. Poor girl. Tried to throw herself off the cliff. Never been the same since.’
‘Right, one bag of strawberry bonbons and one bag of liquorice, please,’ said Susan briskly, returning the shopkeeper’s stare with her own unique brand of iciness.
Miss Hogmier flared her nostrils then reluctantly turned around and pulled the jars off the shelves, huffing to show that Susan was putting her to some inconvenience.
‘Must have been hard for Rita to see you with your children,’ Miss Hogmier continued relentlessly, holding her hand out for the money. ‘Has she seen George yet?’
Susan pursed her lips, astounded by the woman’s boldness. ‘I really don’t think that is any of your business,’ she replied curtly, dropping the coins into her outstretched hand. She handed the bags of sweets to the children then ushered them hastily out of the shop.
Chapter 28
Rita hurried up the lane as fast as her numbed legs could carry her, followed by Tarka, her shaggy golden retriever. Susan was beautiful. Even in that short moment of awkwardness Rita could feel the aura of serenity that surrounded her and see the cool sophistication of her dress and her speech. Susan made Rita feel clumsy, unkempt and inadequate. She had been too overwhelmed to notice the scar.
Struggling with her shopping bag, which seemed to get heavier with each step, she strode up the road, her breath short and the blood pounding against her temples. She had heard that George was coming home, but no one had known exactly when. It had been a shock to bump into his wife. His children were so grown up Rita felt like an old woman. If she had married George she would have enjoyed at least ten years of children by now. Instead, she could feel her womb withering away.
If Susan and the children were in the shop, Rita deduced that George couldn’t be far away. The natural place for him to come would be the church, to pay his respects to his father. As she approached she sensed his presence before her eyes settled on the man who had dominated her sleeping and waking moments for most of her lifetime, and she stopped behind a slender tree on the green to watch him. His tall figure was stooped over his father’s grave. Although he was much broader than Trees had been, his posture reminded her of his father. The way he inclined his head and dropped his shoulders. She felt her eyes sting and her throat grow tight with anguish. Tarka sensed her distress and whined softly.
The Swallow and the Hummingbird Page 33